Claimed

by Portia Moore

  “No,” he says sharply. “Wait, Rain.” And yet, his thumb keeps moving in delicious circles, his lips on my neck, the pressure between my legs ready to explode at any moment.

  I hear the sound of his zipper, and glance down to see him reaching inside of his pants and sliding his cock out so that it stands up hard and eager in the dim light of the backseat. I start to reach for it again, and he shakes his head. “Your mouth,” he says. “You can when I do.”

  I’ve only done this once, and I’m nervous, but after everything he’s done, how he’s made me feel, I want to more than I ever have. I bend down, pushing my hair out of my face and wrap my lips around the tip of him, sucking eagerly as his fingers continue to slide in and out of me, never losing their rhythm even for a second. He tangles his free hand in my hair, gently pressing me down onto his shaft. I want to do whatever I need to in order to earn the orgasm that he has me hovering on the edge of. I’ve never experienced anything like this, and it sends an eager thrill through me. The night before and this morning, he’s given me all the pleasure I could take. Now he wants some in return, and I’m happy to give it.

  I slide down, choking on him as the tip of his cock slides into my throat, wrapping my lips tightly around him as I drag my tongue along the length of him, wanting to make sure that no inch of him goes untouched. The muscles of my throat spasm around him and I feel his hand tighten in my hair. He groans, his thighs stiffening with the wave of pleasure that washes through him, and I moan too, desperately trying not to come. His fingers have slowed, as if he knows that I’m so close to the edge that in another moment it might not be in my control, and that only makes me speed up, wanting both his climax and my own. I don’t know how long we have until we reach the club, and I have not the slightest doubt that if Vincent doesn’t come by the time we arrive, he’ll make me wait as well.

  I don’t know why, exactly, but the thought of it, of him controlling my orgasm so thoroughly, makes me hot all over, soaking wet with the constant pulse of lust that throbs through my body.

  “I’m close,” he groans, gripping my hair. “Faster. Fuck me with your mouth.”

  I obey, moving my lips and tongue over him faster, sliding his cock into my throat with every thrust, hoping that nothing about my makeup is being ruined. I feel the muscles of his thighs twitch and stiffen again, and the groan that spills from his mouth is low and guttural. “Now, Rain!” he commands. “Come for me, now!” He thrust his fingers into me, his thumb moving quickly in fast circles over my clit, and I feel it wash over me in a sudden, hot blur of pleasure so strong that I feel dizzy for a moment. I slide all the way down again as I writhe on his hand, and then I feel him explode in my mouth, the tip of his cock dragging over my tongue as he thrusts himself between my lips, hand hard on my head as he comes in a hot rush.

  I know exactly what he wanted of me. I swallow, lips and tongue running over him, tasting every bit as my hips buck, in this moment willing to do absolutely anything he wants, if only it would continue, if only it would always feel this good.

  I feel the car begin to slow, and Vincent’s fingers slide out of me and he lets go of my hair, reaching to adjust himself. I straighten, starting to pull down my dress where it has worked its way up my thighs, but Vincent stops me with a hand on my leg. He leans forward, reaching up under my dress to slide my lace panties down my thighs, still damp from how aroused I’ve been. Crumpling them up in his hand, he slides them into his pocket. “I’ll hang on to these tonight, I think,” he says, winking at me.

  I stare at him as the car comes to a stop, my mind spinning. What on earth have I gotten myself into?

  I step out of the car, hand in Vincent’s, to the sound of pulsing music, chattering voices, and the flash of photos being taken. “Wait, wait,” I hear him say loudly. “At least give me a chance to give you my best side, won’t you, fellas?” He pulls me up next to him, the curve of my body fitting against his as he holds me close to his side, and the cameras go off again, catching me first dazed, then collecting myself as I look up at him. I realize dimly, as he talks to a reporter with his hand still firmly linked with mine, that I’ll be in the papers tomorrow. There will be photos of me on Vincent Jamison’s arm, in a sparkly dress and fifteen-hundred-dollar shoes, diamonds glinting. It feels like an insane dream, some kind of fantasy come to life.

  I look up at the building in front of us. It’s a grey and black build, with The Palace in bright, flashing neon script above the door. Two hulking bouncers flank it, and I see it as I begin to take in the surroundings that the line to get in stretches well around the building. A man in a grey suit with a clipboard is waiting, clearly there to check those who claim to be “on the list.”

  My hand firmly through Vincent’s elbow, we walk through the door, the bouncers nodding at him as we pass.

  Inside, it is one of the most astonishing things I’ve seen. There is a massive dance floor with neon lighting, and two bars on opposing walls, backlit with ice blue neon that make the bottles that line the shelves glow ethereally. Retrowave music pulses through the room, and I see soft leather seating, velvet and fur-covered poufs scattered around the low, clear acrylic tables. The cocktail waitresses are dressed in tiny latex outfits circling, wearing curled neon wigs in cotton-candy colors, done up in a retro-fifties style that somehow looks sexy paired with the shiny, tight bustier bras and flared skirts. Each one of them is thin, busty, and full-lipped—every man’s wet dream come to life and poured into tight latex. I can see the bartenders making drinks for the crowd of people who have managed to score an invite, drinks that glow, drinks that give off puffs of dry-ice smoke…all creations that will wow even the most jaded Chicago clubgoer.

  “What do you think?” Vincent asks, spreading his hands. “Have you ever been anywhere like this?”

  I watch as one of the waitress’s approach, batting her fake eyelashes as she offers us two drinks. “Good evening, Mr. Jamison,” she says, shiny red lips pouting as she inclines her head. It is the same behavior I’ve seen from the bouncers, from the staff we passed as we walked inside—all as if Vincent is some kind of lord, and all of this his realm.

  “I couldn’t get in anywhere like this. I’m nineteen,” I remind him. “I shouldn’t even be drinking.” I look down at the tall, skinny acrylic glass in my hand, filled with a shiny blue liquid that is giving off steam. It’s like something out of a science fiction novel. I love it, but I also wondered if Vincent realizes how inexperienced I really am.

  He reaches for me, pulling me close to his side again as he taps his glass against mine. “I’m glad I can be the one to introduce you to all of it.” He presses his lips to my forehead and then takes a sip of his drink.

  I reluctantly take a sip of my own. It tastes sweet, like raspberry and lime, and although I can’t taste much alcohol, I know there is probably plenty in it. I need to take it slow, or I’ll be drunk by the night’s end, which is the last thing I want. Right now, I’m just focused on standing upright in these ridiculously high heels, and trying to create some air of sophistication

  “Come,” Vincent says, leading me towards one of the high-backed, half-circle leather seats. He set his drink down on the table and I follow suit, sitting down next to him, careful to keep my legs close together. Suddenly very aware of my lack of undergarments.

  I watch as person after person stops by to speak to Vincent, congratulating him on the opening, shaking his hand, sitting down across from us for a moment to talk about casual business matters. I watch as the women with each of the men look first at Vincent and then me, up and down as if to gauge how available he might be, how strong of a hold I might have on him, how he compares to the man they’re with. Naïve as I am, I can see in every single face that Vincent comes out on top every time. Almost every woman in the club wants him. They all wrinkle their noses as they look at me, and I understand it. I’m young and clearly out of place, as vulnerable as a gazelle in a pack of lionesses. I look at each of them—their perfectly styled hair,
large fake breasts, pillowy lips, and expensive clothing, and wonder what I have that draws Vincent to me instead of any of them. I glance down at the bulge in his pocket that I know is my lace panties and breathe in as I think about what just happened between us in the car.

  When there is a break in the steady stream of people stopping by, Vincent looks at me, reaching up to touch my face. “I know what you’re thinking, my little flower,” he whispers, dragging his knuckles over my cheek and down my jaw. “You’re wondering why you, aren’t you? Why you’re the one here next to me instead of some rich heiress.”

  I nod mutely, wondering if it’s so obvious. If I’m so out of place that he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “I want you because you’re not like them, Rain,” he murmurs. He grasps my chin gently, pulling my mouth towards his. “You’re young and innocent, effortless. Nothing about you is contrived. Your reactions, your delight, your pleasure…it’s all genuine. And I can give you the things to make you feel all of that.” He brushes his mouth over mine, his hand sliding to the back of my head as his tongue slides over my lower lip. My eyes flutter closed, the pulse of my heart throbbing through my body as his other hand slides around my waist, drawing me towards him. My mouth opens without thinking. I let my tongue move against his, shivering as I hear him groan, his hand tightening as it slides down to my ass.

  “What would you do if I wanted you here, now?” he whispers as he brushes his lips over my cheek. “What if I pulled you into my lap and fucked you in front of all of these people? This is my club. I can do it if I want.”

  My eyes open wide. “That’s a little public for me,” I whisper, my throat tight with nervousness.

  He laughs, letting me go. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that.” His eyes narrow, sparkling with mischievous mirth. “But it turned you on for just a second, didn’t it? To think of me being able to do whatever I liked with you, wherever?”

  I nod mutely, unsure if the pounding of my heart is arousal or nervousness that he might actually do it. I look up and see several of the clubgoers staring at me, men and women. The women look jealous, the men admiring, and I realize that Vincent has achieved exactly what he wanted in this moment. I’m a trophy, something beautiful that belongs to him, and now others crave it. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that, but at the same time, it’s a powerful feeling being so desired.

  “What else do you do?” I whisper as the people begin to look away, going back to their conversations and flirting. “Besides own clubs like this, I mean. What kind of business are you in?”

  “Oh, you know.” Vincent waves his hand. “Investments.”

  I frown. “What kind of investments?”

  “It’s all very boring stuff,” Vincent says, his tone sharpening slightly. He waves at one of the waitresses for another drink and glances at me. “Have you ever been to New York?”

  I blink at him, nearly getting mental whiplash from how quickly he changed the subject. “Um…no. No, I haven’t ever been. I hear it’s really nice, though.”

  “Then let’s go. Tonight. Come with me to New York. I’ll show you around all the best spots. It’s one of my favorite cities.”

  I stare at him, eyes as wide as dinner plates. “What…tonight? Vincent, that’s crazy.”

  “I have business in the city. I was meant to go next week, but I’ll move the meetings up. I’ll make you a spa appointment while I’m busy, and then we’ll go out to dinner. I have more establishments there—a restaurant, two more clubs. They’re different from what I have here, but I think you’d like them.”

  “No, Vincent.” I shake my head. “No, I can’t. That’s too much.”

  He turns towards me, his face set in that earnest expression I’m coming to know so well. I’m quickly realizing that when he wears this expression, he’s going to convince me, no matter what.

  “Can you think of a good reason not to? Give me one good reason.”

  “I…” I try to think of something he can’t argue away. Work? He’d offer to cover my shift and pay again. How about I just don’t want to? He knows that isn’t true…and I know it, too. I want to go. Already my heart is racing at the thought of getting on a plane hand in hand with this man, of the wild adventure he would take me on, of what new things I might experience. It seems dangerous and crazy and totally, totally insane…but seventy years from now, when I’ve finished living a life that would, for the most part, probably be entirely ordinary and boring, would I be glad I turned it down? Or would I wish that I’d taken up the one brief opportunity I’d had to be a little crazy, live on the edge a little, let myself be swept off my feet by this man?

  “Alright,” I say softly. “It’s crazy, Vincent. But alright.”

  “Good.” He claps his hands together, pulling me to my feet. “I’ve got a few more hands to shake, and then we can go. Go and dance, Rain. Have another drink, have a good time. We’ll leave soon.”

  I watch him walk over to a fat man sitting at the bar, and I feel the crowd surge around me as a waitress hands me another of the shiny blue concoctions, the pulse of the music vibrating against my feet, up through my body, in my blood. I let myself sway with it, sipping at the drink as I move with the beat, my dress and diamonds shimmering in the swirl of the neon lights, and I catch Vincent’s eyes on me as I dance. Even as he talks to the man at the bar, he watches me, wanting me, desiring me. It’s more intoxicating than any alcohol, better than any drug. I sweep my hair over my shoulder, smiling at him, letting the desire fill my face, the promise of what I’ll let him do to me later. He sees it, and I feel the air spark between us from across the room. This is what they mean by chemistry, I realize. This electric thing they talk about in the movies. I felt something like this before, but it was different, sweeter, innocent, based in love…this is entirely moved by lust. I sweep away any thoughts of the prior.

  I draw him to me from across the room, watching him make his excuses and walk towards me, his hands hard on my hips as he sways against me, eyes fixed on my lips. “Let’s go, Rain,” he says huskily. “I’ve got a plane waiting for us.”

  I don’t know why I expected anything other than a private plane. I’ve flown commercially just once to visit my aunt when she first moved from Indiana. It had been cramped, the air stale, the snacks bad, the drinks unaffordable—and not legal for me to have, anyway. There had been screaming babies and broken headphones and a yipping dog in someone’s lap.

  This time there is none of that. I follow Vincent up the steps of the plane, slightly unsteady in my heels after dancing in them, and as I look around the interior, I wonder if there will come a time when I’ll stop being astonished by my surroundings when I’m with him.

  Will I be in his life long enough to?

  We leave the club clinging to each other, his mouth hard on mine the moment we tumble into the back of the car like honeymooners. I half expect him to slide his hand up my skirt again, or pull me into his lap and fuck me, but he only kisses me, his hands tangled through my thick blonde hair as he holds my mouth against his. It has surprised me…and touched me. Perhaps it isn’t all about sex, as mind-blowing as it is. Maybe there is more to it for him.

  There is definitely beginning to be more to it for me.

  The seats are plush tan leather, six on each side of the plane’s cabin. They recline, with a table between each of the sets of two facing each other. Two immaculately dressed flight attendants nod to Vincent as we walk down the aisle, and I see a cashmere blanket, silk eye mask, and headphones in two of the seats.

  “You’re probably tired,” Vincent says softly, his hand on the small of my back. “I had someone pick up something more comfortable for you.” He gestures to a small shopping bag next to one of the seats. “You can go and change if you like, Rain. I’ll be out here.”

  I can’t think of anything to say. I kiss his cheek gently, and then reach for the bag, walking into the small washroom at the far end of the plane.

  It’s much nicer than what I�
��ve seen on the commercial plane, as to be expected. The countertop is marble, the sink fixture brushed nickel, and a small vase of flowers was secured to the top of it. As I pull the soft pajama pants and satin camisole out of the bag, I realize there are toiletries in there too—makeup remover, face wash, a small toothbrush and toothpaste. It makes my head spin a little—he’s thought of everything. Every need I could possibly have, he’s anticipated it. It makes me feel a little strange, to have someone two steps ahead of me at all times, doing things for me before I could even think to want or ask for them. Well, there was one other person. I scoff at myself for thinking of a stupid teenage crush, one that almost broke me, when here I am with a handsome, successful man in his private plane.

  I wriggle out of the sparkling dress and slip into the pajamas. I tie my hair up on top of my head, carefully removing my makeup as I watch my reflection in the mirror. It seems like a crime to undo all the carefully done artistry on my face, but as I wipe it away and see my natural appearance return, I feel a little more like myself, a little more anchored. And then I realize, as I toss the wipes in the trash and reach for the bottle of face wash, that Vincent has never seen me natural. We showered together after that first night, but I hadn’t washed off my makeup, worried about what he’d think if he saw that my eyelashes didn’t really stand out without mascara and I had a few zits along my jaw and a couple of red spots on my cheeks and…

  I shake my head, reaching for the washcloth and wiping off the herbal-scented froth on my face. I can’t keep a face full of makeup on around him forever. Eventually, he’ll have to see the real me, and that I’m not the glamorous girl he seems to think I am.

  I finally emerge from the washroom and see him seated in the leather seat opposite of the one that had my shopping bag, typing away quickly on his phone. He looks up as I walk out, and a pleased expression crosses his face as he takes me in—barefaced, in my new sleeping attire, my hair in a messy bun atop my head.